


Tanglewood Tree

by yunitsa



Category: Rome
Genre: M/M, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-08
Updated: 2007-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yunitsa/pseuds/yunitsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during 2x04 - yet another campfire scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tanglewood Tree

After a while he tries to sleep: probably gives a credible impression of it, except that his eyes won't stay closed. In the firelight he sees the solid line of Vorenus' back, next to him on the bedroll but curled away, the shoulders shaking with silent emotion, and his own heart squeezes in his chest like Vulcan's forge, familiar. He wants badly to reach over there, put his hands on Vorenus and shake him until all the broken pieces rattle back together. Or at least to make him see that he's not alone.

Once, he would've done it, no hesitation. But now it feels like there's a wall between them, built up of all the wrong words said and blows traded and time spent apart. _He's gone awry_, he'd told the General. And then somehow they'd both gone awry together.

Well, if they had it was up to him to fix it. He'd come here to fix it, after all, if he could, and now it seems that it'll take more than the bare truth to do that. Vorenus might still give his life for his in a trice if needed, he knows, but he'd never say a word about why -- never turn and reach out.

So Pullo takes all his courage in his teeth and reaches -- grasps Vorenus' shoulder and turns him around through main force.

Vorenus grunts with it, startled, but does not speak. His pale eyes are open in the firelight, red-rimmed but dry -- the eyes of a dead man who hasn't stopped breathing. "What do you want?" he asks at last -- no inflection at all.

Pullo feels his own eyes fill: foolish, unmanly, unhelpful. He takes hold of both Vorenus' shoulders and gives him the teeth-rattling shake he's wanted, horrified by how limp Vorenus is in his hands. "I want you here," he says, around the lump in his throat, "with me. Be angry if you like -- you could hit me, I won't mind it -- the gods know you've got reason. But be _something_."

"There's nothing here," Vorenus says, and tries to turn away. They're near enough now for their breaths to mingle, Vorenus' even and Pullo's shaking with frustration. He can see that Vorenus' skin is clammy under the stubble, too pale. Dead already.

He needs to do something, so he pulls him nearer still, holding Vorenus' head to his shoulder. He can feel the hard bulk of him, not fighting, but locked up tense like a stone. "Yes, there is," he mumbles, and more besides, curses and nonsense syllables, endearments you give to children. It's easy to shout in a blaze of anger, _I'm your friend and I love you_. Harder to say that sort of thing quietly, close.

"I bring nothing but grief," Vorenus whispers after a moment, his breath damply warm against Pullo's neck. While there's breath… "To Caesar, to -- Niobe, to the children. To you. Everything I care about falls to pieces, through my fault. So what do you expect from me?"

It's the closest he's ever come himself to an admission of feeling, but then he must feel that he's got nothing to lose. Pullo wishes that he had something clever or wise or inarguable to tell him. That General Antony would have thought of something. 'Course, he'd've said it in that tone of voice like he was just biding his time to get you into bed, or against any hard surface that offered, really.

And, huh. There was an idea.

It's not like he's ever really thought about it before, except sometimes picturing his fumbling with Niobe with a sort of exasperated fondness, cheering him on, like. And those other times on long campaigns without women, when just the warmth of another body next to his was enough to leave him hard and breathless in the dark. But he'd definitely never thought to try anything, even then, because Vorenus had strict ideas about propriety and would've punched him for it, at best.

Only now they're neither of them got much to lose, it seems (except, an insidious voice whispers, each other), and even punching would be preferable to _this_. So he shifts his hands, feeling large and clumsy, the one on Vorenus' shoulder sliding lower and the one on the back of his neck pulling his head up, tugging on the short ginger hairs.

There is faint surprise on his face -- at last, something not grief or guilt -- and then a flash of panic, maybe, as Pullo's mouth closes hard over his and Pullo's hand reaches into his tunic.

A moment, Vorenus holding perfectly still and unresponsive beside him, and Pullo wonders whether he's made a dreadful error, if instead of fixing this he's broken it beyond repair. And then Vorenus makes a sound in the back of his throat and suddenly they are kissing truly, wet and harsh and without finesse, while Pullo moves his hand like he knows to do for himself, rewarded by cries into his mouth.

He wonders, dimly, if he ought to turn over now -- not that he likes the idea much, but he's always known his place, even if lately it's fitted him ill, like an outgrown shirt. But when he tries to move Vorenus pins his shoulders to the ground with something like a growl, his eyes wild like in a fight, a terror and a relief to see.

"Equals," he pants, broken-voiced but unshakeable. "Equals, in this."

The way he's holding Pullo down -- the way Pullo could probably throw him off, but doesn't even think of trying -- feels anything but equal, but there's no point arguing. Especially not when Vorenus is touching him now, firm but maddeningly slow, taking him along like he's always done, until Pullo forgets that this was his idea in the first place.

Through a haze of unexpected pleasure he hears Vorenus speak again, mouth to his ear. "You should leave me," he gasps, like he's in pain. "If you leave me…"

"Hush," Pullo whispers, helpless, wanting to touch all of him at once, gather him close. "Hush, I won't leave, I won't--" but Vorenus is already arching up off him, mouth open in a soundless cry and eyes squeezed shut, like he's elsewhere in his head, as remote as he's ever been even now.

But then it passes and Vorenus bends down to kiss him, almost tenderly, eyes open on his and a hand on his cheek. He licks at where his lip's been bitten bloody, and his other hand shifts and Pullo is gone, too, shaking apart at the seams.

And as soon as his arms will work he pulls Vorenus down to him, not letting him roll away. He's relaxed now, almost boneless: his breathing steadies and slows. Pullo kisses the salt on his cheekbones, blue tracery of veins at his temple, thinking. They might never be equals, exactly, but maybe they're so tangled up now as makes no difference. Where in Hades does Vorenus think he'd go, that wouldn't lead back to here?

Vorenus' hand knots in his shirt and he shudders all over, already dreaming and nothing pleasant by the looks of it. Pullo strokes a hand down his back, soothing, whispers: "There, lamb, there. It'll be all right…" even though it's probably a lie.

But Vorenus calms under his touch, that simple, and the tree branches overhead pass no judgment on them, and in the morning they will go and get the children, together, and maybe there's a chance that it will be, after all.


End file.
